


psychologists and stardust

by stardustshrimp, taxevasion (stardustshrimp)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: AU? ish?, College AU i guess, F/M, Incoherency, Inconsistent writing style, No Proofreading We Die Like Men, Snippets, Young Siebren de Kuiper, basically operating on the concept of pre-space station sigma being a young astrophysics professor, but most of it i made up, i googled some of this, now feat. some talon dudes, oh!, still follows canon at the end nvm, what is dutch? sAME HAT, what is university? I dunno and it SHOWS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2020-09-19 02:27:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20323579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustshrimp/pseuds/stardustshrimp, https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustshrimp/pseuds/taxevasion
Summary: You weren’t always the quiet old woman at the library.There was a time, once, when you were a student, and you met a man, and he sang you songs of the stars.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> oooh, boy, where to start with this one.
> 
> 1) i like sigma. i want to be his friend  
2) i also like reader inserts! natural conclusion: this  
3) i’m planning more if all goes well, so like. yeah  
4) one thing i always wonder with insert fics: why are they always so tiny and where is the appreciation for older readers? (spongebob voice) old people are the greatest!  
5) it just seems very nice to write a 30+ yr old reader i dunno  
6) this was!!! inspired by max and dierdre’s relationship from the limetown podcast! it breaks my heart! it’s so good!

Days at the library were full of snippets of conversation. Most of it was routine, and all of it was hushed.  
  
“I want to check these out.” “Of course. One moment... there you are, dear.”  
  
“Do you have anything to help me for my finals, miss?” “Hm. Yes, I believe I do.”  
  
“You look happy today, ma’am.” “Do I? Thank you.”  
  
There was a soft sort of secret that hung about your eyes as you worked, and it was one that very few noticed, or cared to. (You were, after all, just a librarian.) The secret manifested in the way you would gaze up at the ceiling when you thought no one was looking, in the way your eyes would catch on titles about the cosmos, in the way you masterfully maneuvered conversation away from your personal life.  
  
The few who’d realized there was something there, and those who were brave enough to ask? You always dispelled their curiosity with a soft little laugh and a sheepishly murmured, “oh, that must be my psychology degree showing. I’ve always been a bit dreamy, and the classes didn’t help.”  
  
It was enough of the truth to satisfy people, even though sometimes there was nothing more you wanted to do than cry, maybe, and admit your secret.  
  
Because it was very, very simple.  
  
You had lost someone to the stars, and it would hurt you ‘til you died.

* * *

  
Your early thirties hardly seemed to be too late to go back to school and major in psychology. At least, it hadn’t seemed too late before you met the most renowned professor in the science wing.  
  
To clarify: you didn’t have him for any classes. Astrophysics were, while fascinating, not in your domain or field of understanding. You had it in you for neurology and its confusing chemical nature, but not for the sort of heavy duty mathematics that went into calculating stars, and moons, and galaxies.  
Some things were just too much.

* * *

You weren’t much for parties, but you went at the request of a roommate. It was nearly an ice-cream social, this gathering of nerds - more gentle chatter and punch than red Solo cups and bass. In a way, it was just your speed.  
  
“Who’ve you been staring at?” asked the roommate, eyes studiously following your line of sight. It led to the man who had entered the room not ten minutes sooner, all broad shoulders and trim waist and a laugh that filled the room.  
  
“Hm? Oh!” You flushed. “No, it’s just - I see him from time to time, in the library. Space section, sits across the room from me at lunch, huge stack of books, very hard to miss. We’ve never talked, but...”  
  
“But you want to,” the roommate surmised, and beamed. “Then do it! Check it out, he sees you too.”  
  
And he did. Striding across the room, expression intelligent and friendly.  
  
“Well, if I’m not mistaken, it seems that the library has given you up for today!” he exclaimed without pretense. His handshake was strong and confident. “Psychology, yes?”  
  
“Psychology,” you confirmed, “sometimes unfortunately.”  
  
He gave you a sage little ah at that, nodding in approval.  
  
“The human mind is an endless mystery! It’s commendable of you to attempt to traverse it!”  
  
“One could say the same to you!” you exclaimed, recalling the volumes you’d seen him with. “With the astrophysics? The sheer number of formulas you have to retain to even begin to understand it!”  
  
And just like that, you wondered why you hadn’t spoken to this amiable, scholarly man with an accent like a wise mentor in a fantasy novel. A grin formed on your face; the roommate knowingly made a polite escape, eyes smiling knowingly.  
  
You could have been mortified at being left alone with a sharp-eyed stranger.  
  
Instead, you introduced yourself, and he introduced himself, and the pair of you fell to chatting.  
  
The psyche and dark matter: perfect topics with which to make friends.

* * *

  
  
“I should really be heading off, now,” said Siebren at length, setting down his cup with a measured little tap. “I have a lecture at eight.”  
  
At this, he tilted his head in a manner that suggested eye-rolling, but his eyes remained fixed on yours. It was easy to get lost in that clever steely-blue, you thought, nebulous and layered, but he drew you back with a resigned laugh.  
  
“Perhaps I should make it all up as I go along, if only to assess how much stock they put into the man at the podium. A social experiment!” he mused. “I may have to run the operational parameters by you, given that it is more your forte.”  
  
“You‘re a flatterer, Siebren,” you tossed back, relaxed and delighted to have found such an unfettered spirit - and one your age, at that! “Are you presenting a project for your class, or...?”  
  
“My... oh!” Siebren blinked, tilting his head curiously, and chuckled. His massive shoulders shook with amusement, one hand coming up to stifle the almost silly smile curving against his mouth.  
  
Huh, you thought eloquently, puzzled. Then the puzzlement became confusion, and it evaporated into pure mortification at his mirth.  
  
“Oh, my dear, you misunderstand! It is for my class, but only because it’s my class.” Genuine warmth lit his eyes. He shifted in his seat, toward you, his hand outstretched, and you briefly wondered if he’d always been that close. “Professor de Kuiper. Marvelous to properly meet you!”  
  
_What_.  
  
Every one of your mental processes hit the brakes. Of course, there had been talk of the newest professor, of how young he was for a professor, but never had it occurred to you that you had been chatting him up the whole night.  
  
“I,” you began, eloquently. Your eyes darted over his face - amused, watching you as if you were one of his projects and he was waiting for you to bubble over, or combust, or crystallize with the force of your surprise. “...Professor de Kuiper,” you said breathily. “It’s - it’s an honor, sir, I hadn’t realized -“  
  
Siebren - the professor - immediately raised a hand, his eyebrows climbing in what you imagined was his Warning look. Even through your horror at your faux pas, you couldn’t help but note how charming it was, and how effective.  
  
“Now, now, no need for the formality! I would say we’ve rather left it behind after the fourth cup of punch shared between us, hm? Please - it’s Siebren to you.”  
  
You floundered.  
  
“Oh, I’m sorry for assuming, then, Professor de - that is, Siebren - that, um.” Maybe there was something in your drink, because you were acting like a wreck. “I’m at a bit of a loss here, because you’re - you’re so eloquent and witty and good to talk to, but you’re Professor de Kuiper, and...” Not helping yourself. “And that’s hardly a bad thing, just surprising, and why do you have to be so _handsome_?”  
  
Oh, no. Foot in mouth. Verbal spillage. Abort mission, abort!  
  
You would never forget the way your entire face burst out into a flaming blush, or the way you just barely stifled a mortified keening sound. As it was, you cringed heavily, expecting either his sudden awkward retreat or your own expulsion from the university for creeping on the astrophysicist.  
  
Neither of those things happened. Instead, you were brought back from your pit of consternation by his laugh, clear and wondering.  
  
“Handsome!” repeated Siebren as if he hadn’t heard your self-lashing tirade, his expression well and truly delighted. “What an unexpected compliment - and you called me the flatterer!”  
  
Your roommate never believed you when you told her you had charmed the astrophysics professor into arranging a coffee date.  
  
To be entirely frank, you couldn’t believe you either.

* * *

  
  
“If I’m handsome,” he told you later, over coffee, as if picking up the conversation from that night with no passage of time in between, “then you, my dear, are positively _pulchritudinous_.”

* * *

  
  
“Four sugars, two creams,” you told the barista.  
  
“Two sugars, four creams,” rattled off Siebren, not a moment later.  
  
“It’s poetic, really,” you said as the two of you settled at a table. “Balanced contrast. Robert Francis Winch wrote a treatise on social affinity and complementary relationships.”  
  
Understanding lit his face. “Ah, direct proportionality! That is uncannily fitting!”  
  
The girl behind the counter smiled knowingly overhearing it, not that either of you saw.

* * *

  
  
“Is it - wrong?” you asked, on about the fourth or fifth coffee date. The coffee gave way from a rich brown to a warm creamy color as you stirred in sugar and milk, and gave you something to focus on as you voiced your hesitation.  
  
Siebren glanced up from the papers he was grading. The two of you had taken to bringing your work with you, you your textbooks and highlighters, he his students’ essays on the significance of the gravitational presence at the center of spiral systems. It was a comfortable arrangement; often, one of you would comment on something or another you read and the quiet focus would devolve into tangents, interspersed with laughter and fascinated smiles.  
  
His brows furrowed, head canted ever so slightly to the side. You could see a flicker of concern dancing in his expression.  
  
“Is what wrong, _mijn_ _psycholoog_?”  
  
“The whole... this. You and me, getting coffee together like this. I mean, don’t misunderstand, it’s the highlight of my day and I just love being around you like you can’t believe, but at the end of the day, you’re a professor and I’m a student and -“  
  
Your hands, which had been wringing themselves together, stilled when Siebren tapped his fingers against your knuckles, gently commanding your attention.  
  
“Valid points, but consider for a moment: there is no policy against such fraternization at this institution,” he said, voice light as if he were physically leafing through your concerns and tossing them away as he debunked them. “And I’m hardly being used as a free tutor - ha, unless you’ve been using coy remarks about structuralism to draw out answers for your assignments!”  
  
He seemed perfectly at ease with his reasoning, and yet he was careful not to cross his line of the table. Boundaries, testing, waiting for an outcome despite the calm of his smile.  
  
“Besides,” he added, “despite my occupation, I’m hardly a great deal older than you. You can’t be more than twenty-eight, _mijn_ _psycholoog_!”  
  
“Thirty-two, you charmer,” you corrected lightly, laughing despite yourself. “And you’re right. I just worry... although the structuralism accusation may not have been far off from the truth.” A slight pause. “I may have to buy the next round of coffee to make up for that, professor.”  
  
He laughed, shook his head, and waved off your facetiousness with a fond air.  
  
When his hand dropped, it settled right over yours.  
  
You turned your palm over to better lace your fingers together, and something in your heart warmed to see the gentle smile kindling his eyes.

* * *

  
  
Following that morning, you could hardly focus on your classes - you were too busy squeezing your hands together, trying to recreate the warmth.  
  
What a marvel, that something so simple as hand-holding could knock you off kilter this much.

* * *

  
“You call me your psychologist,” you mused. “But I have nothing to call you.”  
  
“Finally, the issue is addressed!” he tossed back playfully.  
  
“No, wait, hush. It’s happening. I need something cute and good. Like... hm, like bean.”  
  
Bafflement. “Pardon?”  
  
“‘Cause you’re a tol bean - oh, come on, it’s old, but you can’t pretend you don’t know the meme!” You snapped your fingers. “It also fits, because of the coffee. Oh, wait. Bean. Siebren. Sie-_bean_!”  
  
“_Mijn_ _psycholoog_,” said Siebren, mirth clawing at his face, neither confirming nor denying his meme knowledge, “that was _indisputably_ terrible.”

* * *

  
  
You sat in on one of his lectures, once, when you had no other classes to go to, and the room was crackling with his bright energy the minute you had a seat in the back and watched him tie up the loose ends of a tangent.  
  
“The nature of reality is, many claim, entirely subjective,” Siebren exclaimed, sweeping back and forth before the board. “And yet here we have the tools with which to measure it! The base units, the formulas, the values and laws handed down over thousands and thousands of years - Newton, Planck, Hawking, Avogadro. Would anyone dare to call their discoveries futile, given reality’s subjective nature? Of _course_ not!”  
  
Maybe it was the way he stood under the bright lecture hall lights; maybe it was the angle at which you saw him, completely in command of the mass of students. Maybe the way his accent flared and caught over syllables and vowels, the more excited he got, the more focused.  
  
The way his eyes suddenly caught yours, and surprise softened his features before settling into a delighted sunbeam of a smile as he almost waltzed before the podium, the atmosphere snagging and spiking with razor-focus and bringing the class with it.  
  
“It is not only the ability,” he thundered, “but the duty of the astrophysicist, to bring the equations to balance, to catch Reality in a state of equilibrium to be perfected, to be wrought into an engine for humanity to advance on. Dark matter, pulsars, black holes - they are all out there, _waiting_ to be harnessed!”  
  
Right then, he had a power to him - with sharp features and intelligent eyes and a rising, dynamic energy as he raised his arms and sketched a lambda across the board with a flourish.  
  
Siebren de Kuiper, you thought distantly, was a very handsome man.  
  
But here, in his element?  
  
He was positively _alight_.

* * *

  
  
“And the lecture, _mijn_ _psycholoog_?” Siebren asked that weekend as the two of you made lazy laps around a park. “It would do me good to hear a critical review.”  
  
So you thought.  
  
And, honestly, you said,  
  
“You get excited, and you wax poetic about the possibilities of the future. Really, your _gravitas_ is unparalleled.”  
  
He laughed helplessly, as if he was aware of both it and the awful pun. “A _weighty_ concern.”  
  
“_But_,” you countered, raising a finger dramatically. “if we could channel that light in you, that - that effervescence? We could completely power the entire university, maybe even the city. You came alive, Siebren, and I loved every minute of it.”  
  
In hindsight, you could think back to the look in his eyes as he watched you, slack-jawed and startled and a little overjoyed, and recognize that smitten expression for what it was. It was the look of a man starstruck and mystified and thoroughly charmed, of a man who, in that moment, was just barely holding back every honey-coated term of endearment he had in his repertoire.  
  
Instead, he settled for gathering your hands in his and leaning a bit closer.  
  
“A shining compliment! _Ontzettend_ _bedankt_!” he exclaimed, pleased. Then, laughing: “Any chance I can get it down in writing, _mijn_ _psycholoog_?”  
  
And try as you might to continue the banter, you could only chuckle back gently, tightening your grip on his fingers. Watching the dynamic quirk of his brows, the intimidating figure he cut, the endless curiosity in his eyes.  
  
“You’re going to change the world, aren’t you?” you said softly, unbidden. “You’re going to change the world.”

* * *

  
He’d tell you in writing that your words were a benediction, that he worked every day to be worthy of the blessing.  
  
That it’d taken hours for the worst of the butterflies to disperse.

* * *

  
  
“Bet you wish you’d taken astrophysics, huh?” the roommate asked once, sly.  
  
From where you pored over the stages of moral development, you shook your head.  
  
“He makes the theories come alive when he teaches,” you admitted, “but I much prefer the direct proportionality.”  
  
“The what?”  
  
And you tried to explain, that balance between you. Your focus on humans, and his on humanity. You, turned toward the earth, and he to the cosmos. The divide between the little things that did not stop one from trying to understand the other.  
  
Thoughts and feelings, morals and relationships; gravity and hard math, space dust and starlight.  
  
You grounded him, and he inspired you.  
  
“He’s the astrophysicist,” you ended up saying. “I’m the psychologist. We both love coffee and cheesy jokes.”  
  
That was all the sense it needed to make.

* * *

  
  
You stayed at his apartment one night, the two of you unwinding before finals week over tea and Jenga.  
  
He made stroopwafels - scattering an unholy amount of flour on the ground whisking too intensely - and they were divine.  
  
“It‘s a travesty!” was how he presented them. “An absolute outrage that you have never had the pleasure of eating one!”  
  
His affronted demeanor was cute, and so you took a bite to mollify him.  
  
“Oh, my gosh,” was all you could say as the caramel between the wafers burst onto your tongue. “Oh, my gosh, that’s criminally good.”  
  
“Another invaluable peer review!”  
  
Siebren absolutely preened, folding his arms with the sort of pride normally reserved for taking home the gold in the Olympics. A streak of flour dusted the bridge of his nose, his grey-blue eyes shining.  
  
“Your turn,” you said, and reached over to shove a stroop into his mouth.

* * *

  
The kiss was chaste, and wracked with butterflies, and came soon after the stroopwafel episode.  
  
You could still taste the caramel, still feel his flush.

* * *

“Stardust,” you decided. 

  
“Pardon?”  
  
Embarrassment.  
  
“Stardust. If I’m your psychologist, you’re my stardust. A little cheesy, and very Carl Sagan, I know, but you’re just a marvel, and lovely, and you are made of the stuff, so I mean -“  
  
“It’s perfect,” he breathed. Were his eyes a little glossy? “I fear you may have outdone me!”

* * *

  
  
“I’m actually a little at a loss for what to do,” you confessed on receiving your social psychology major. “The learning was good, the structure - it’s just, now what?”  
  
“Now you find out what you can accomplish with it, where you can go, the doors open to you,” answered Siebren, still beaming with pride. In his hands he held flowers, which he had apparently meant to hand off to you, but which he’d hesitated to do upon actually reaching you. His excitement was palpable, his eyes brighter than ever. “But for now, we return home - I have a proper graduation present to offer, you know.”  
  
The word snagged. “Home?”  
  
At this, Siebren flustered. “... By which, of course, I mean my apartment! My home, is what I should have said. That is - you can - I -“  
  
“Oh, stardust,” you breathed fondly. “You beautiful idiot. How can I not consider your home one of mine? Let’s go. Lead the way.”  
  
Of course, before he led, you had one more thing to do: you leapt forward and crushed him in the biggest hug you could.

* * *

  
  
  
In hindsight, when he was called to the stars by the powers-that-be - because this was renowned astrophysicist Siebren de Kuiper, who had theorized a viable way to harness black hole energy, so of course he would be - you should have held on a bit tighter.

It wasn’t that you didn’t. It wasn’t that you didn’t voice your concerns, your fears, wasn’t that you didn’t cry at the thought of just how far he would be, and would he be safe, and would everything be okay?

And it wasn’t that you realized then that as much as he cared for you, he loved his work more.

It truly, truly wasn’t.

But you stuck with him through the zero-grav training and diet changes, and you listened, rapt, as he regaled you with stories of what would be, what he would do, the lives he would change. And you held his hand until the last possible moment, until he had to break away from you on the tarmac and turn his eyes toward the cosmos. 

What was it?

Well, it was that you were a coward.

“Siebren,” you could still remember calling. “Stardust, I -” Watching him turn, eyebrows raised questioningly, expression a little bit longing. 

_ I love you _ , you didn’t say. _ I’ll miss you, and I’m scared _.

But Siebren was a man of reasoning, not spoken words, and he caught on fairly quickly.

“I’m off to change the world,_ mijn psycholoog _,” he said softly. “Just as you said I could. But please, there’s no need to cry.”

At this, his thumb brushed off a traitorous little tear sneaking its way down your cheek. Gentle. Familiar.

“When ever you need me - to tell me something, to wonder after how I am,” he said, “Look up at the cosmos, past the moon. I will be there, and I will know. The universe is, after all, a very strange and marvelous conduit.

“Believe me,_ mijn schatje _,” he said, “as surely as stardust is to stardust, I will always be listening.”

“I believe you,” you whispered back, and that was the goodbye.

* * *

Not long after that, brilliant astrophysicist Siebren de Kuiper was dead, lost to space in an experimental slipup that had gone horribly wrong.

And not long after _that_, you shoved away everything that even remotely served as a reminder. You found, as time wore on and the bitterness stagnated, that it was better to quietly live out the rest of your life as the forgettable librarian in a small, forgettable town. Better to keep moving forward on a different track than to admit how much it hurt.

_Can you hear me?_ you pointedly did not think at the stars. _Are you there, somehow, stardust?_

You did not allow yourself to listen. 

You would be receiving no answers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> no one ever stays dead. you’re quickly coming to learn this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an addendum? from me?? more likely than you think
> 
> disclaimer: it’s been a little while since i took psychology and i honestly had the hardest time distinguishing between classical and operant conditioning, so... might go back and fix it?

This was how the story ended, the one of you and Dr. de Kuiper.

He died. You grieved, and always got misty-eyed seeing the stars.

Such was the price of scientific advancement, you supposed. Even if it wasn’t _ fair _.

Even if it wasn’t fair.

* * *

  
Except the universe was a strange, fickle thing, and things often did not align with one’s perception, one’s belief.

* * *

  
This was how the story did not end, after all: you returned home one night, locked your door behind you, hung up your coat…

“You sure took your time.”

… And turned to see the colorful woman sprawled out on your couch like she owned it.

A break-in? Was she - with her glowing cybernetics and dyed hair - just some punk who enjoyed scaring the life out of people?

“Hello,” you said in your startlement, after a second of mute silence. Calm. Steady. “Can I... help you?”

The way you were handling this was painfully awkward and the snide little laugh she barked out told you she knew it. All of a sudden, you got the feeling that this wasn’t just a random break-in.

For her part, the young woman stood up lazily and stretched, even going to far as to reach over to the coffee table and turn over one of your coasters.

“Nice place you have. Cozy. A little boring. But that was no accident, huh?”

You didn’t answer. She rolled her eyes.

“Wow. You sure are the chatty type.”

“Please tell me why you’re here. What did I do? Who are you? Do I need to call the police?”

A snicker. It sounded mean.

“You couldn’t call them if you tried. Little perk of being in a room with me. As to why I’m here, we’ll get to that.

“But I guess you can call me Sombra. Not that anyone would believe you.”

Okay. Names were important to building rapport, which was important to crafting escapes from tense situations like this. Could you find a way to slip out the door? Was she dangerous? You set your jaw. Time to find out.

“Sombra. I - it’s nice to meet you, I suppose. My name is -”

“Oh, I know who you are, _ mi psicóloga _! Kinda hard not to with the way you’ve popping up on our radar.”

_ Mi psicóloga _.

Your blood froze. Even in another language, it was impossible not to recognize the nickname.

Where had she heard that? No one knew about that, outside of you, and maybe your roommate back at university, and -

Stardust.

She knew your stardust.

“What,” you said softly, gripping your hands so tightly they went white, “do you know about Siebren?”

She snorted. “_ Siebren _? Aw, isn’t that cute. Young love, right? Oh, wait. It isn’t.”

The jab at your age hardly registered over your rising distress, which you kept tamped down with the strength of years of experience.

“He’s dead. He died, they reported it in the news. What do you know about him? What are you here to tell me?”

“_ Íjole _ , you really can’t take a joke, can you? Look. This isn’t some house call. And what I know? It’s a lot. Long story short, the holovids lied, your _ Siebren _ is alive, and _ you’re _ going to come with _ me _ , _ vieja _.”

A kidnapping.

“Wait a moment, no, I need real answers before I go anywhere. What is going on? How is he alive?”

Questions and questions and questions, beating a loud staccato drumline in your head. And you held most of them back. You bit your tongue to avoid yelling at this secretive woman to be transparent, for a single moment, because it had been nearly thirty years that you had withered away, consumed by your grief for the man you had met at that ice-cream social.

And you didn’t.

You didn’t panic, not until you saw the submachine gun in Sombra’s hand.

Not until the armed men poured out of the other rooms and rushed you.

Not until you felt a prick in your neck, and felt your blood turn to lead, and crashed into unconsciousness.

* * *

This was how you woke up: cuffed, and groggy, and sitting on a plush sofa in a stark, efficient room.

The man sitting in front of you wore a suit, finely tailored, probably more expensive than everything in your wardrobe. His face was set in businesslike civility, the cybernetic implants in his skull only intensifying the feeling of power emanating from him.

Even if he hadn’t had the metal, wicked-looking arm, you would have recognized him. Everyone remembered Doomfist. Everyone remembered watching the Numbani footage.

“I trust you’re comfortable?” was the first thing he asked. There was a single note of humor in his voice, enough that you couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not.

Hysteria would get you nowhere here. Not with a man as averse to weakness as this.

You licked your dry lips and answered, aiming for cool confidence and ignoring how your voice trembled.

“Considering the circumstances,” you breathed, “I’m comfortable enough.”

“Good. It would be a pity for you to be uncomfortable here, given that you are not going to leave.”

He said this with such flippant authority, as if you had asked for this, agreed to it, as if it had been settled and sealed with a handshake. Had you not been wary, and fearful, you would have been irked.

“I’d hate to ask questions that may not concern me,” you said carefully. “But I can’t imagine any particular use I would have for you, Mr. Doomfist, sir. I’m only a librarian. I hardly have anything to offer.”

You pointedly did not say, Siebren, tell me about Siebren, I know you know something I don’t.

Completely unfazed by your recognition of him, Doomfist leaned forward across the little table separating you, his eyes searching yours.

“Ah, but you do,” he said. “_ History _.”

You blinked. He explained.

“The gravitational experiment led by Doctor Siebren de Kuiper was a notorious failure. Of the personnel aboard the space station, only four survived and made it back to earth, unable to recall anything of substance about the mission. Among the fatalities was de Kuiper himself. It was, I’m sure you recall, a scientific disaster. A tragedy, never to be spoken of again.

“That was only a cover-up.

“The Dutch government was extremely careful to isolate the variables of the experiment, fearing the repercussions should the truth get out to the world. This included threatening the survivors into silence, reporting the incident as a catastrophic failure - by then the humiliation was the preferable option - and, of course, locking away the most important piece on the board: Doctor de Kuiper, who was not dead, who had survived exposure to a black hole, and who had been changed so severely that the only thing to do was put him out of sight.”

You wanted to deny it. You wanted so badly to believe it was a sick joke, because it was a kinder thought to believe that he had died easily, was resting now.

You wanted to ask; you made yourself wait until Doomfist finished speaking.

“For years, de Kuiper - Subject Sigma - was held in the lower levels of a remote asylum. His already precarious mental state was compounded by the staff’s neglect. By the time Talon liberated him from his prison, he was spending most of his time sedated, tied down. Everyone feared him so greatly, what he could do to them - we were the only ones to see his condition for what it was: a gift.

“Our lead scientist has been working with him ever since, sharpening his grasp on his abilities. But it’s more than manipulation of gravity; it is a constant uphill battle to work with a man as fractured as he is.

“This is where you come in.”

There were a million thoughts rushing through your head at that moment. Understanding, anger, an aching sort of heartbreak. Siebren was alive.

“Because I’m history,” you said.

He was alive, and he had been suffering for decades, and you couldn’t even tell.

Doomfist nodded.

“You will serve as a grounding force to him, given your connection. A stabilizer, if you will.”

“I… I see.” What could you say to that? Could you refuse? Consciously, knowing who you would be refusing?

“I - please understand that this is overwhelming to me,” you said, “I… I thought he was dead. I grieved, for years. Wondered why we’d decided to wait until he visited Earth to get married. It’s a horrible, aching thing to be told that not only were you _ grieving _ for nothing, but that this whole time the one you lost had been in _ pain…” _

You steadied yourself, gripped your hands together tightly. Felt the way the cuffs rattled around your movement.

“Is he okay?” you whispered. “Not - psychologically, I’ve gathered that much. But is he being taken care of?”

Physically, mentally, emotionally - did they treat him with the regard that they should?

He answered your multifaceted question with stark simplicity.

“Of course.”

“When can I see him?”

He considered you for a moment. You were probably imagining the slightest touch of regard in his eyes.

“There are rules to be followed here,” he told you in lieu of an answer. “Terms to be used, conditions to abide by. I want to make it very clear that Talon does not negotiate, or deal well with rule-breakers. Do you understand?”

You shivered.

“Yes. I understand.”

Doomfist smiled.

“Good answer. The arrangements will be made.

“Welcome to Talon.”

* * *

  
The rules went something like this.

You were going to be surveilled every time you stepped into Siebren’s chamber. You were not allowed moments of privacy.

You were not to tell him about Talon’s true moral alignment. He operated under the belief that he was doing good work, and you would not ruin that.

You were not to try to influence his behavior and turn it against Talon.

Doctor O’Deorain’s word was law here. Even if you didn't agree with her decisions, you were to follow them.

Your role was to stabilize and settle Siebren to further allow him to make progress with his purported gravitational powers. This did not apply to missions; then, Talon needed raw power, which he could only produce under extreme emotional distress. No complaints.

Any slip-ups on your part would result in punishment for Siebren, be it a skipped meal, isolation, or sedation.

Those were the rules.

And you hated every single one of them.

* * *

“Moira O’Deorain. I know who you are.”

“Oh,” you said, surprised, and considered how to go about shaking her hands when her nails were almost longer than your fingers. You settled for a normal handshake, fighting back a flinch when her nails dragged uncomfortably across the back of your hand. “It’s good to meet you, Doctor.”

“A rare sentiment.” Though this was a walking, talking human rights violation, she had a rather lovely accent. “Time is of the essence, however. I would rather introduce you as a stimulus during his docile phase, so as to ensure the desired association takes place.”

“Classical conditioning,” you said, making a small noise of recognition. “Am I the neutral stimulus?”

“Ah. You _ did _ study psychology, didn’t you? Given that we do not know what his reaction to you in his current fractured state will be, yes, you will be the neutral stimulus.”

She handed you a covered tray, and you took it.

“Using food as the positive stimulus, then,” you surmised. “Because it’s a primary reward.”

She regarded you calmly. Something about her expression told you that very few people could follow along with her explanations the way you did.

“Yes. Follow me.”

So you did, and you struggled to keep up with her long strides, and by the time you reached the chamber, you really felt your age. You inhaled deeply, trying to conceal it. Talon did not like weakness.

It was a sparse hallway, dimly lit, and the sign posted on the wall read _ Caution: Gravitational Instability _. There was a heavy, vaultlike door, and next to it, a large pane of one-way glass.

Your breath caught.

Behind it, a man _ floated _, unhindered by gravity. In his hands he held an orb of pulsing blues and blacks, and he inspected it with the same intellectual ferocity that defined his career as an astrophysics professor.

He was older, and taller, and yet he was still so very familiar that your eyes filled with unshed tears.

“Siebren,” you said softly.

Moira glanced at you, before tapping a control on the wall.

“Doctor,” she said aloud. “I trust you’re feeling stable?”

He looked up, right into the glass, right at you, it seemed. The familiar blue-grey almost knocked the wind out of you.

“Ah, Doctor O’Deorain!” he greeted. You stifled a small noise. “Yes, I can say that I am particularly lucid today. I seem to have misplaced a few of my markers, however… Strange.”

“Markers are easily replaced,” Moira replied. “How do you feel about a visitor?”

His eyebrows - familiar and ridiculous and dynamic - furrowed for a split second, before lifting in an expression of gentle curiosity.

“Other than you, you mean? I suppose I wouldn’t be averse to it. It’s been so long since I’ve had another mind to share my theories with…”

Siebren closed his eyes, hummed a note that stretched a bit too long to be normal, and composed himself.

“Very well, Doctor O’Deorain,” he said finally. “Send them in.”

After unlocking the mechanisms on the chamber door, Moira waved you in. The cant of her expression demanded delicacy, or else. You nodded, carrying the tray as you walked in. Every step felt like a sentence. Every step felt like hope.

You carefully set the tray down on the small metal table, bolted, almost fused to the ground, keeping your face carefully turned toward grey floor.

“Oh - hello,” said Siebren, sounding puzzled. “Have we met before?”

You pressed your hands together to quell the shaking - it was him, it was Siebren, it had been too long - and finally, slowly, you looked up. The dormant adoration in your heart for him resurfaced all at once, and it was all you could do not to cry.

So you smiled.

“Hello, stardust,” you said softly, and watched his eyes go wide.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things don’t always go smoothly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: thank you, punkibean, for tellin me about the donations thing, you’re a lifesaver! and amarick for being so generous!
> 
> instead, these are my tumblrs:  
ultscribe (for various OVW things)  
ardenigh (just where i put my art!)
> 
> here’s another chapter!
> 
> (note: it is a little bit more intense, given sigma’s sanity slippage. it does explore his darker tendencies. it doesn’t stay very bleak, though!)
> 
> (also, if anyone can please help me with that dutch usage at the end? i’ve read a little bit about diminutives, but dutch is still very new to me.)

The reality of just who Siebren was these days settled in gradually.

It manifested itself in how distracted he was, how anxious, on a level he’d never reached before. He would suddenly jolt, and stare at the ceiling, and go disconcertingly quiet. And then he’d turn to you and desperately ask,

“Can you hear it? The music?”

It was troubling - there was, you were sure, no music.

One day, though, you said, “Hum it for me, Siebren. I might recognize it.”

Though it wasn’t perfect, and made his brows dip and furrow as he strained to hear it, he tried. The few shaking notes he could get out - the few recurring ones, as the rest was unfixed, constantly fluctuating - were melancholy, ghostly; a waltz with phantom dancers with kaleidoscope minds, glasslike and sparkling, like Siebren’s.

“It’s beautiful, in a way,” you decided.

“It’s painful, sometimes,” he told you. “The echoes.”

* * *

You would see the echoes in the line of his shoulders as he wept in the days following a mission; as Moira prepped a syringe to sedate him with because he had been awake for forty-three hours and was becoming terribly upset.

You nearly leapt in front of her as she made for Siebren’s chamber.

“Let me!” you nearly yelled at her in your haste. “For a moment, let me try something. Before you sedate him.”

“Be my guest,” she eventually replied, insincere, evidently curious enough to let you have your way for a moment.

It was the simple pressure of your hands on his face that brought him out of his mind, in the end. You imagined it was like being pulled out of the ocean right before drowning, based on the visceral relief in his eyes as he slipped into real and much-needed sleep.

* * *

“Contact comfort,” you told a mildly amused Moira. “Humans need it. It works.”

* * *

It didn’t always work.

* * *

This was when you realized that this was not the Siebren you knew before, not entirely.

_He_ did not slip into morbid fury at the world, did not laugh sharply at the gentle suggestion that he have a seat and stop pressing so hard on the atmosphere in the room.

“Siebren,” you said, resisting the urge to gasp at the weight on your shoulders, “talk to me. What is the melody telling you, stardust?”

“The melody! The infinite, merciless black, the cold. Tell me, librarian,” he said, detached, “have you ever experienced violence?”

A troubling question, one you couldn’t bring yourself to answer. He drew impossibly close as he spoke - a distance that shouldn’t have made you tense the way it did. He stared straight into your eyes - and chillingly, he saw you.

Siebren present and focused was something to celebrate, but not like this.

Not like this.

The pressure lessened impossibly, until the two of you hovered precariously in the air. He was still so close to you, his sharp features mean in a way they had never been before, and this was when things changed.

This was the first time you looked at your stardust and felt genuinely afraid.

“Put me down, now, Siebren,” you told him. “Please.”

It was the wrong word to use.

“_Please_,” Siebren repeated carefully. He tilted the syllables around in his mouth, examined them, considered their nuance. “Fascinating. The vulnerability of the word.”

“Siebren.”

“I begged for mercy, in the institution,” he said, jovial, as if telling a story. “I pleaded for mercy, for humanity, and I was denied. Like a cosmic, ancient thing, shut away because they were _frightened_. And perhaps they were right to be.”

“_Siebren_.” Your breath hitched.

“I came to understand the brutality of the universe, the stark nature of reality. I was made to suffer - why not anyone else? Where is the equal opposite?”

Something was terribly wrong, and you had to do something. So, finally, you moved forward - and you pressed your forehead against his.

“Come back to me,” you pleaded. “Siebren.”

Silence. He leaned into your touch, maybe, ever so slightly, as if through the warmth, you were getting through to him.

And then he pulled away.

“_This_ is the meaning of violence,” he said, eyes wild and focused and dark.

And he slammed you into the ground.

* * *

You recalled very little about the hours following the outburst.

Guards, maybe, pulling you up. Vaguely questioning where they had been as the tension had been rising. Shouting - Siebren’s. The sudden silence as you finally blacked out.

And, punctuated by the beep of machines, the shock of Moira’s orange hair as she labored over your injuries, the searing tears running down your face.

_That_ _was_ _not_ _Siebren_, you wanted to cry. _That_ _was_ not _Siebren_.

* * *

“Is she alright?!” His voice, frantic, echoed through the hallway, made tinny by the speakers. “That - the woman, my visitor, my… Surely, Doctor, you have a prognosis -“

“All in due time. Now, I’d like to begin with an fMRI scan -“

“Stars, what have I _done_? She - she looked so _frail_, but I could hardly read a human the way I can the stars, first aid is simply not my area! Unless -“

“Focus -“

“Unless I’ve - oh, God forbid - have I _killed_ her?” Genuine panic edging in, the slightest hitch over the word _killed_. “Have I - no, _no_, I would have felt it. I would have… how would I have felt it? How would I - who _is_ she? Who is - who is -

“- but who is anyone, under the pressure of the music, the violence of the universe -

“- oh, there are so many fractures - the equations, the melody, it’s _erratic_, it’s -“

Moira’s patience, already thin, snapped like a weak sheet of ice.

“_Doctor_ _de_ _Kuiper_,” she said starkly. “Would you consider yourself in need ot temporary sedation?”

The words - frosty, promising bitter, bitter pain should the underlying threat not be heeded - did the job better than a solid hit to the head. The undulating, urgent and wildly unstable stream of babble cut itself off, fast enough that Moira could hear his teeth click together, that she could hear his rapid intake of breath.

He was perfectly transparent; she knew what he was recalling. The hazy, aching in-between after his last outburst, the kind that allowed him excruciating awareness of the fact that his limbs weren’t cooperating, that he could not speak, or scream, or plead.

Subject Sigma was dangerous, not to be taunted, but the threat of complete powerlessness and isolation would always be enough to keep him in line.

“I - I - no, that won’t be necessary,” he said, and there was palpable effort shaking his voice, fear in his eyes that he desperately tried to smooth over. “I will be - no, I _am_ \- settled, Doctor O’Deorain.”

Silence.

“See to it that that’s true,” is all Moira said in the end, after allowing a tense few seconds to slip past.

She turned to walk away, her steps resounding in the hallway, foreboding. In truth, she could easily have assured him that you were alive - but that was not the sort of ship she ran. He would receive no answers from her, not yet. Not after the childish display of emotional weakness.

* * *

You were out of the hospital bed and making your way down to the holding chambers as soon as your legs could support your weight. Moira’s bedside manner was nonexistent, but her mastery over biotic energy ensured that you were recovering much faster than you would have outside of Talon.

Although, you would have forced your body into cooperation anyway. That look in Siebren’s eyes - the lucidity following his episode. The confusion, like a lost little boy, and the realization, and the horror.

You’d never thought anything could break you more than the news that your stardust was dead. But you’d requested the footage of the incident, had watched the way he had snapped out of his malicious state the instant he’d heard you cry out, seen you motionless on the ground. You’d seen, through grainy camera quality, the fear and anguish in his tone as he spoke your name querulously. And the break in his voice, the way he seemed both to curl into himself and fumble, reaching out to you?

You blinked back the tears gathering in your eyes. They were angry, but it was a self-directed anger. You should have stayed, shrugged off the guards’ hands. You should have stayed long enough, at least to reassure him. Instead, your mute shock, the agony in your bones, the resounding thought that _your_ Siebren would never hurt you, had fractured him all the more.

He would have stayed for _you_, even if he were as battered and bruised as you.

“Given your physical condition, you should hardly be out of bed, let alone be on a mission to injure yourself further.”

You blinked yourself back to the present just in time to receive Moira’s vexed comment, and you held yourself still as she appraised you.

“Your body is not responding to the biotics as quickly as it should,” she said, more to herself than to you. “I will need tissue samples to figure out how to compensate for your age.”

“Of course, later,” was all you said, and made to move past her. She didn’t step aside; she merely raised a brow. _Now_, her expression said.

You squared your shoulders, settled your features into the stern librarian face. Moira’s word was law, but your will broke for no one.

“I would be _more_ than happy to donate my cells to your research, Doctor,” you began patiently, injecting a slight touch of force into your words. “But I’m here to have a mollifying effect on...” - and here you almost choked, referring to Siebren so callously - “on _Subject_ _Sigma_. If I don’t get down there to reshape his perception of me, given his trauma, then it will only cement me as a source of negativity and distress. And that is _exactly_ what you don’t need me to trigger.”

She regarded you calmly. You stared back, clasping your hands together, ignoring how she stood half a foot taller than you. Could she doubt your logic?

No.

But she chuckled, a thin-lipped, dry little thing.

“Your ability to disguise sentiment as reason is admirable,” Moira said knowingly. She narrowed her eyes slightly. “I’ll expect you in my lab in no less than an hour.”

* * *

A very long time before, Siebren had offered to teach you to dance.

“You know how?” you’d asked, eyebrows raised.

“Of course,” he replied, smiling at the ceiling before returning his eyes to you. He paused. “Well, I’ve pored over the holovids enough that I can confidently say yes.”

So he didn’t. You gripped his hand, anyway, and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. His expression - open and warm - absolutely crumbled into a red-faced tableau of flustered adoration.

“Lead, then,” you said, startled at your boldness, “and I’ll follow.”

You could reasonably pick up a simple waltz, right?

Siebren, after wringing his hands a bit to get himself back on track, stepped aside to begin the music.

You looked over at him as he searched through his audio collection, his focused grey-blue eyes and gentle, quick-witted expression, and that was when you realized that Siebren de Kuiper was an ever-shifting mystery, one that you could study for years and never fully understand, not for a long time.

He was an open book, and a bundle of surprises, and you felt yourself love him a little deeper right then.

And then you laughed.

Because, as if to prove how surprising he was, Siebren put on a jaunty country song, and extended his arm as if he were royalty.

* * *

He was crying.

As you drew towards the observation window, the inbuilt speakers carried over the soft sound of his gasping sobs.

It hurt you more than fractured ribs ever could, so you rushed over, quickly as you dared, and placed your hands on the glass.

“Siebren,” you said gently, aware of how choked up you sounded. “Siebren, can you hear me?”

It was like he’d been struck by lightning. Posture suddenly ramrod straight, eyes wide and startled, tears still trickling down his sharp face. When he spoke, it was hushed, and shaky, as if he hardly dared to breathe.

“You’re _alive_,” he whispered. “You’re - I haven’t -”

“No,” you said firmly. “No, I’m okay. I’m more concerned about at the moment, really. Do you… is it okay if I come in?”

His reaction was immediate, conflicting. Distress, and denial, and a look in his eyes like he wanted to say no and send you far, far away. But behind that? He was lost. He didn’t want to be alone, something he’d never quite had an issue with before, but, well. Time made changes in places one wouldn’t expect. He was still yours, you resolutely reminded yourself, even broken.

He inhaled.

“Please?” he said softly, vulnerable.

_Of_ _course_, you thought.

Swallowing back the heaviness in your soul, the aching affection and sadness, you scanned yourself in, and pushed through the iron door.

Siebren tracked your movement into the room; his expression dropped the second he took in your bruises, the way you limped.

“I’ve _hurt_ you,” he said hoarsely. “Like so many others. How can you stand to be here?” He gritted his teeth, eyes brimming with new tears. “You should go, quickly.”

You met his gaze, affronted. His own eyes found the floor.

“Siebren, I would never leave you. You’re not entirely in control all the time, true, and you are more powerful than anything I’ve seen, true. But it changes nothing. You deserve company, and a listening ear - support, and not isolation. None of your lapses will change that, do you understand?”

“Why?” he asked, distraught. “I’m not the same man anymore! I remember things, in my lucid moments - incremental, fleeting things - the coffee, the lectures, the dancing. But it’s passed! I could - I almost _did_ \- murder you, and I cannot plead instability because it was a _choice_.”

“A choice.” Your tone was quiet, probing, and you gripped your hands remembering the cold light in his eyes.

Siebren shut his eyes. His hands came up to massage his temples as if attempting to soothe away a migraine.

“There is,” he began, “a darkness that moves within my psyche. Its cycles are reminiscent of the tides - sometimes it is dormant, and sometimes it crests high over me, and I… I am consumed. When I come back to this, this state, then I look back on the things I did, the things I _enjoyed_ as I did them, and -” And there was real sickness in his expression, real dread.

This was where you drew the line on his roiling, frantic self-hatred. In a manner almost mirroring the first time you met, you held up a hand, eyebrows raised. Siebren fell quiet, tense. Your eyes softened.

“You asked me why. And it’s really a nebulous answer, and I want you to listen. Okay?”

“I… yes. Okay,” he replied meekly, visibly cutting himself off.

You took in a breath, steadied your hands.

“It’s because you mean a great deal to me. It’s because when you love someone, when someone’s well-being is as vital to you as _breathing_, then you stay with them! Because I have loved you for so, so long, and there is nowhere I would rather be than with you, Siebren, even with the complications!”

You felt yourself falter, steeled yourself against it. Your eyes never wavered from his face, and he stared back, pale, transfixed.

“Because,” you continued, soft, “when I think of you in pain, alone, I can feel it like an illness in my bones. It is a very slow, awful way to die, when you are not there for the person you adore. You gave me so much; I want to give, too. So, please - no more of this… this self-flagellation. That isn’t what I came here for.”

He swallowed. His voice was hoarse, as if he feared the answer.

“Then why _did_ you come?”

It almost broke your heart.

You kept your answer present, simple.

“Because I’d like to hold you, stardust,” you said quietly. “Can I hold you?”

He couldn’t nod fast enough.

It was almost comical, maybe, the way this titan of a man floated gingerly into your arms, the way you settled back onto his spartan bed and pulled him along as if he weighed no more than a feather.

Siebren bent his head until it rested on your shoulder, and his tears trailed warm on your skin.

And despite everything, it felt a little like home.

* * *

“Do you still remember how to dance?”

“With you? I could never forget.”

Of course, the weightlessness created a bit of a new experience, and you laughed as he spun you around.

* * *

You hadn’t consciously realized just how rarely he called you _his_ _psychologist_ these days, not until he abandoned it entirely in favor of a new name.

It was a reminder of the change. And change had never been so bittersweet as if was when he looked over at you that morning, his eyes very far away. And he breathed, reverently, as if just noticing you,

“Hello, _mijn_ _schildje_.”

* * *

It was with a fiercely watchful eye on Moira as she took blood samples from him, ignoring how tense he was with the needle, that you decided the change was fitting.

He was your stardust, and you would be his shield.

  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the separation anxiety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s been a minute, huh? life got really hectic and adulting is a little crazy, but i’m back with a tiny bit of filler! it might be a lil incoherent, but i really wanted to get back to you guys. hope y’all are well!

It was to your belated surprise and weary acceptance, a few months later, that you came to the realization that you’d fallen into a routine. And it seemed strange, that an organization so blatantly inhumane as Talon could ever be so structured - but maybe it wasn’t that surprising. Even evil had to have rules, right?

Like when the dropship pilots were ready and wide awake at 0430 exactly, either to run drills and keep their muscle memory fresh or to prep for transporting one of the senior Talon agents as they underwent some clandestine mission. Like when a good half of the lighting systems went dark every night, because anomalous and wealthy evil entity or no, Talon was serious about electricity bills.

Like - and you always had to grit your teeth thinking about it - when a mission called for a massive show of violence, and you were given a coolly-worded notice that your clearance to see Subject Sigma was null and void for the next week. Preparation was everything, after all, and they did not want you there to ruin the destabilization process. The slightest hint of emotional balance meant an untold drop in the force of a Gravitic Flux. 

What was their ticking time bomb if it didn’t go off, after all?

There were a lot of things you hated about Talon, not least of the brutal advantage they took over everything. There was also a special sort of patience you’d made yourself cultivate, the kind that let you power through difficulties for the sake of a single noble goal. 

But then, once, Moira laid a hand on your shoulder, eyes sharp and smile clinical, and said, “I believe your time with the doctor is up for now,” and a special sort of rage began to kindle in your stomach. 

“Of course, Miss O’Deorain,” you replied tightly, knowing fully how much pride she took in her status as doctor. Her lips pressed together in disapproval - but she couldn’t exactly argue seniority.

You stifled a bitter little grin.

Petty? Maybe.

You couldn’t be sorry.

That was your _stardust_ they were weaponizing, your _devotion_ they were exploiting.

And you could only let it happen, because it had become routine.

* * *

Every single time you left Siebren for destabilization, knowing that he would be alone and afraid and confused for days afterward, you had to force yourself to keep walking further and further from his quarters. 

One day, you would turn around and run for him, pounding on the glass and shouting so he heard you, and knew he wasn’t alone, and maybe snapped, miraculously, to the realization that you were both prisoners here. 

But that day wouldn’t come for a long while, not if you could help it.

Not when he paid for your shortcomings.

* * *

_“I’ll see you tomorrow, stardust,” you told him, sliding your hand free from his and shutting off your datapad. His fingers twitched reflexively at the loss of your touch, as if he had been about to reach for you again and consciously aborted the action. “Doctor O'Deorain and I have some psychological theories to discuss.”_

_And you rolled your eyes playfully like you were a teenager, making it obvious that you would really rather stay with him, in companionable quiet while you read. The levity was welcome; you both knew it._

_Siebren’s smile came easier than it had the first time you’d had to leave, his expression calmer, less turbulent. He had experienced dramatic improvement in his manipulation of hyperspheres since you’d begun visiting, you’d been told, and you could easily believe it._

_“Come, now, the good doctor’s company isn’t so bad!” he teased. “But please, don’t skip out on such an opportunity on my account, mijn schildje. I’m only pleased that Talon knows how valuable a researcher you are!”_

_There it was, the obliviously cheery tone. Your brows furrowed for half a second. He didn’t seem to catch it._

_“I’m hardly a researcher, Siebren,” you reminded him._

_His eyebrows climbed, smile indulgent. _

_“But you are! Your insatiable curiosity and drive to understand… that is what research is founded upon!”_

_He maintained the same level of contentment that day, even up until you got up to leave in earnest, promising to return soon._

_The way his eyes always glossed over with a little bit of loss every time he watched you go was always included in the mandatory report. It was eventually, however, dismissed as a negligible detail. _

* * *

Siebren’s state of mind was malleable these days, to say the least, and you bit your tongue well enough that it was molded in Talon’s favor. It didn’t make it any harder to love being around him, of course, but there was something disconcertingly troubling about the pleasant light he cast the organization in. He was blind to it all and you could not help him see, and the worst thing? Maybe _that_ was the punishment for having left him to the world all those years ago.

* * *

_His ability to put together patterns was both a blessing and a curse. _

_The moment he’d learned to predict missions based on how you said goodbye fell firmly in the curse category, and in hindsight, you shouldn’t have been so predictable._

_What were you supposed to do, though?_

_“I… Goodbye, stardust. I love you.”_

_No ‘see you in the morning,’ no ‘until next time.’ Simple. Stark._

_Siebren’s brow furrowed and he looked you up and down, worry creasing his face. You fought the urge to squirm as you watched him._

_“Aren’t you going to come back tomorrow?” he asked finally. There was a strange little note dancing in his tone, one that made you tense._

_You opened your mouth, and you hesitated. That was where you messed up._

_You couldn’t lie to him._

_The look in his eyes told you he knew it. The way they widened and snapped to your face in denial told you you should have._

_Siebren’s next breath shuddered as he took it in. The change in him didn’t take long to happen._

_“You’re going again,” he whispered hoarsely. “You are. You’re leaving me _again_, and then I’ll be alone with the music, and then… and then… no, _no_!”_

_You felt the air shift, felt the slightest press and tug of the atmosphere on your bones, and you absolutely hated the flicker of fear that lit up your chest for a moment. This would not be a repeat of the last incident - this was the wrong sliver of his psyche, more distressed than cold, and more importantly, you _refused_ to be afraid._

_“Surely there’s a more reasonable solution,” Siebren continued, hands alternatively wringing and tapping out a polyrhythmic cipher against his wrists. “I understand the importance of the isolation research, but an alternative is worth considering, isn’t it, given my record?”_

_It was strange, the blend between intellectual reasoning and outright pleading, But it wouldn’t do to throw your arms around him and promise not to disappear again, and so you resigned yourself to giving him the most apologetic look you could possibly give._

_“I’m sorry, stardust,” you told him, mournful. Every single time you left him to go a little madder it killed you on the inside, but this? His sudden awareness of your abandonment? The lucidity in his eyes as he realized that you knew what happened to him every time that door shut behind you? “Good grief, I am so sorry.” _

_The stricken look on his face almost shattered your resolve to stay in line, and as it was, you reached out to press a kiss to his knuckles._

_“Remember that I adore you,” you said firmly, ignoring how much your eyes had begun stinging. “I know it’ll hurt. Just - don’t forget that.” _

_When you turned away, it felt like a retreat. It felt like a betrayal. _

_You’d constantly dwell on it in the following days. How you’d barely made it out of the chamber with how everything began floating erratically. How a Talon guard had to pull you fully into the hallway because Siebren’s gravitational field was growing too strong. Moira, gazing impassively into the observational window, her mismatched eyes finding yours and holding them for a moment._

_Siebren’s voice carried over by the speakers. _

_“Wait, _wait_, I - Don’t _leave_ me! I apologize, for whatever I did, but _please_!” His voice grew higher with desperation, words spilling like a flood out of his mouth his accent clinging hard to the syllables. “When you leave, the universe collapses, please understand! Mijn schildje, you are the stabilizing component, I _need_ you here, I -”_

_“We’ll have to sedate him,” Moira announced. “The emotional decay is happening too quickly to be manageable.” This was accompanied by another glance at you, as if it were your fault._

_You could only stare back, tears in your eyes and glass shards in your heart._

_Well, maybe it was._

_Maybe it was._

* * *

You weren’t sure what to do with the revelation.

Siebren was well aware of his time spent as a weapon carrying out Talon’s will. Not only that, but for him, it wasn’t a mission. It was an agonizing cataclysm, a vicious cycle of him losing control and succumbing to the staccato waltz of the universe.

He’d told you he feared himself. Now, having seen his desperation for stability, you thought you understood just how _deep_ that fear ran. 

* * *

It was at this point that your priorities shifted. It wasn’t enough to shield Siebren from what little you could. He had to know, too. He couldn’t fight against an enemy he couldn’t see.

You had to get through to him.


	5. interlude: a few of the unsent letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the psychologist writes to siebren most days. here are some of the more recent letters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time no see! adulting is a bit tough and i’ve been learning that firsthand, but i haven’t forgot about y’all!
> 
> really short chapter and some weird narration this time, and gratuitious italics!

_To Siebren:_

_Hello, stardust._

_Remember when we’d write to each other all the time? The little things. Notes and scraps and reminders to get each other through the day. ‘Hi, you. Remember to break for lunch today, space cadet.’ And those dumb little pickup lines and puns you loved so much! ‘_Mijn psycholoog_, you are out of this world!’ written on that designer space-themed paper I got for you. You were such a nerd and I love it. I loved it, rather._

_No. No, I still do._

_You aren’t going to read this. Maybe someday, you will, but not yet. Not when you are so lost to the lies they’ve spun. Not when the Talon you see is not the real Talon, the one that hurts people on a quest for unmatched power and authority._

_But I’ll hold off on that tirade._

_I walk the halls of the headquarters late at night. I’ve been doing it for weeks, now. At first, I was tailed every step by a pair of guards, as if a mild-mannered librarian could possibly pose much of a threat. Now, they know me by name. At times, I’ve wandered into the specialized break room, with its Keurigs and elite atmosphere - oh, but I’m too old to care about exclusivity, now. I’ve helped Moira enough in the lab to qualify for it._

_On one of my visits - I’d made a habit of putting on the kettle for tea - I had a late night conversation with the widow. I think she was warmer, once. Her face does not naturally fall into the stillness it rests in. I think she would have a beautiful smile; she thinks I am an idealist._

_“What is your name?” I’ve asked every time we’ve met._

_“Names are unimportant,” she usually scoffs._

_Perhaps I’m growing on her. Because the last time, I asked, as I poured her some tea, and she told me._

_“It was Amélie.”_

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


_Hello, Siebren._

_Today was a Sunday. Even without my datapad, you let me know. You were collected, today, and it was one of the moments where I could forget the reality of our situation._

_You were warm in your sweater, pale blue and knit, and the artificial light in your chamber was not soft or kind, but something about the two brought out the periwinkle shine in your eyes, the sardonic arch of your brow as you made some witty remark or another. Combined with the lab coat, it lent something terribly endearing to you as a person. There was something soft there and I have to take it all down in writing because it’s worth holding on to._

_“What I wouldn’t give for a coffee from that little corner shop,” you mused, picking at the tag hanging from your mug of herbal tea. “For anything caffeinated, really.”_

_“You and I both, stardust,” I replied, tapping my mug against yours. The solidarity of the tired and caffeine-deprived._

_Your brows furrow, head tilting slightly the way it does when you’re recalling something. All you need is a fist pressed to your chin and you are the perfect image of the intellectual researcher - but as it is, you give off a rather more puppylike air._

_“But you’re a veritable caffeine-based organism, mijn schildje! To suddenly quit… You haven’t been diagnosed with anything,” you asked me, worry shining in your expression. “Have you?”_

_It’s always so sweet, the regard you show. It’s why I adore you so much, Siebren._

_“Oh! No, no, nothing like that.” Calmly, good-naturedly. Everyone always rushes to mollify you for the slightest things, fearing your reaction. I think they haven’t realized yet that you’re more held together than it seems, especially on days like these._

_“It’s only fair, I figure,” I told you. “That we both go through caffeine withdrawals. Besides - coffee just isn’t the same without you to share it with. I need the direct proportionality, you know?”_

_Your sunbeam smiles are a national treasure, to be protected at all costs. So is the way you huffed out a helpless little laugh and pressed your forehead against mine._

_“I can hardly argue with that logic, _mijn schildje_.” And then, softly, as if remembering: “It’s Sunday. We would have been at our café right now.”_

_You sounded almost doleful, rueful in the way you spoke, as if things could have been so much different, so much quieter, so much more painless, if only you had stayed with me, if only you never gone up on that ill-fated research mission._

_But, well._

_That sort of thinking is illegal, stardust. There’s no time to waste on regrets._

_So I put a hand on your cheek, watched you lean into the touch._

_“As long as I get to be with you, it’s always a good time for new traditions, Siebren.” And I laughed. “I’ll even meet you back here next Sunday for the next date. Sound good?”_

_If my laugh is contagious, yours is all-encompassing. There is so much wrong with the world, stardust, but I could endure it all for days like these._

_I do hope you get to read these, someday._

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


_Siebren:_

_I have to keep this one brief, I think. It’s one thing to write down little anecdotes of our times together and the encounters I have with Talon’s elite; it’s another entirely to detail a gamechanger like this._

_I’ve met someone. He’s not of Talon, but he’s noble and good, and more importantly, he knows people. I can’t share much, if anything more. I know that Sombra likely knows about my record-keeping, but why she would keep quiet about it is beyond me. Maybe because she finds it amusing? Maybe because I’ve been trying to build a rapport with her? I can’t say, but it makes this ordeal feel that much more precarious._

_I’m afraid, Siebren. But freedom feels too close for me to give in just yet. Hold tight, okay?_   
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your encounter with the man in the scarf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand we’re back! I’m definitely gonna have to go back and spruce up the last chapter, because it was excruciating, pffft!
> 
> Anyway, I hope y’all are well!

It was two-fifteen in the morning, when you met the man in the scarf, and you were restless, walking the halls. It was a strangely fitting time for such a run-in, in hindsight - the base was quiet, the guards likely bored or falling asleep at their posts. It was perfect for an infiltration mission; and you, with your timing, turned the corner at the perfect moment to run into the man. 

Clad in armor and bright accents and hefting a large gun, it only took a moment to register how unfamiliar he was, and your heart lurched in your chest.

“You aren’t Talon.”

The accusation was as abrupt in execution as it was gentle in tone. It hung in the air like a ghost, awaiting an answer, and as you looked into the young man’s eyes, you realized that both of you had spoken at the same time. 

At the comprehension dawned on you, you relaxed, and so did he, and he let out a soft little chuckle. 

“So much for subtlety,” he admitted.

“The scarf is a bit conspicuous.”

“Touché.” He grew serious. “We shouldn’t talk here.”

That was how you ended up in an obscure storage closet with an obvious enemy - an armed one, no less. A little voice in your head - the one that sounded uncomfortably like Siebren - said that it would be prudent to get out of there, and quickly. After all, you had no way of knowing what he wanted. And maybe he was right, but…

_No_. You kindly but firmly told the Siebren-voice to shut up. He was too deep in Talon’s lies to see them for what they were. You would rely on your own wits.

“I…” you said at length, and then introduced yourself. It was strange to hear him repeat your name back to you - between Siebren’s endearment and Talon’s formality, you hardly ever heard your given name spoken. 

“Call me Baptiste. I’m not Talon, obviously,” said the man at length. “I was, but… that was another life. There was a conflict of interests, you could say. We had to part ways.”

“Part ways,” you repeated, your chin raising slightly, tone colored with mild skepticism. “That sounds final.”

A laugh. “Not so much ‘final’ as ‘I’m on Talon’s wanted list,’ but they often don’t care much for specifics,  _ oui _ ?” He smiled; it was downright infectious. “I’m obviously not supposed to be here, but they have something I need.” 

You drew in a breath. A single note of hope rang in your heart for a moment. Maybe - unlikely, but maybe… 

“Something like a person, maybe?” you guessed querulously. He tilted his head ever so slightly, curious, but ultimately shook his head. You tried not to deflate too much. 

“A cure,” he said. “For a… friend of mine, you could say. It could save a lot of lives.” There it was again, the stern seriousness you had seen earlier. “But keep that on the down-low, yeah?” he said, his tone light, but the cant of his head authoritative. You couldn’t find it in yourself to mind, not in this situation.

“I have no love for Talon,” you returned softly, sincerely. Then, with a small smile, “Besides, if I were to talk, I’m sure you would have no trouble taking me down.”

He chuckled, and didn’t deny it.

“Then let’s be glad we’re on the same page,” he said. “Now, I hate to cut this short, but I really don’t have all day here, so—”

“Tell me if I can help,” you interrupted, and immediately flushed. “Please. Talon has… they have something of mine, too.”

In the low light of the storage closet, Baptiste leaned back as much as he could and eyed you appraisingly, arms folded. For all his doubtless urgency, he carried himself with a very steady demeanor, as if the two of you were just chatting, as if he knew you. 

“Do you want to walk with me?” he asked eventually, in a tone that felt more decisive than inviting. He pushed open the door carefully, paused to listen for footsteps. When no alarms began to shriek, and no one immediately tore down the corridor, guns blazing, he jerked his head outside, motioning for you to go first. You obliged, stepping out of the closet, turning to watch him follow and stretch his legs.

Baptiste took point then, and true to his claims of being ex-Talon, he began making his way down the winding hallways as if he owned the place. Truthfully, if not for the cheery blue-white-orange of his outfit, you might have mistaken him for a genuine operative. 

You could only pad after him, quietly as you could in the half-resting facility, and marvel at how softly his footsteps fell when he was wearing such clunky boots.

It was then that a terrible thought occurred to you, and dread hit your stomach like a weight - cold, final.

Oh.

Oh, no.

“Baptiste,” you said softly, eyes wide.

“Hm?”

You could hardly speak. “The cameras.” Now that you were looking, you could see them all in awful clarity, dozens of black lenses with their blinking red lights. “I completely forgot about them, I should have warned you, I - Baptiste, I’m so sorry…”

It really was a pitiful excuse for an apology, and it could never encompass the horror you felt gripping your throat like a vice: that this young man, with the bright smile and kind eyes, had already risked so much to be here only to be caught and dragged to his death - and it was because of  _ you _ , because he stopped to talk to  _ you _ .

_This is your role, isn’t it?_ said a cruel little voice in the back of your mind.  _ To watch people suffer, because you allowed it. Because you are a coward. This is your purpose in life. _

Tense, tenser than you’d ever been before, you waited for the squad of Talon deathtroopers to storm the hallway and take aim. Maybe one of the elites would be with them, maybe Doomfist himself. Maybe it would even be Moira, and then Baptiste would suffer a fate even worse than death and it would be all your fault all your fault…

Could you pull Baptiste behind you? Give him some time to ready his weapon, to make an escape? Could you wrestle a gun from an agent and use that? You weren’t especially strong, and you had no combat training, and you were beginning to realize that that may have been by design on Talon’s part, but surely you could do something — 

_ But Siebren _ , you thought suddenly, cold.  _ What would they do to Siebren? How would he suffer if you helped Baptiste? How would Baptiste suffer if you claimed ignorance, that he had grabbed you to use as a shield in a desperate bid to save Siebren? How could you protect them both? How could you pick one to shield? _

Then a hand landed on your shoulder and squeezed lightly. The warm weight of the palm, encased in well-worn leather, shook you from your deer-in-the-headlights episode, halted the raging thoughts pounding a tempest in your skull. Baptiste looked you in the face steadily, his expression understanding, reassuring. His eyes - a strangely bright brown in the weak auxiliary lighting - spoke volumes, all of them galvanizing. Everything’s okay, they seemed to say. We’re still in the clear. Trust me.

And, aloud, he said, smiling conspiratorially, “You know something? I wouldn’t worry about that.”

Then Baptiste turned his face upward, to the lens on the ceiling, placed his arm gently around your shoulders like the two of you were taking a vacation photo, and - honest-to-god - winked at the camera.

_ What... _

“Come on,” he said, releasing you, and gave you a brilliant smile. “Let’s finish this little field trip.”

You hesitated, looking at the camera, puzzling it out - and then it clicked in your head. A laugh bubbled in your chest and you turned to catch up with your new friend. Of course a man as charismatic as Baptiste could charm  _ Sombra  _ onto his side. 

* * *

  
“Oh - this is Moira’s lab.”

The sidelong glance he leveled at you contained lighthearted humor, a bit of  _ no, really? _ But beneath that there was a genuine seriousness, a careful intent that gave Baptiste a predatory air.

“It is,” he said. The two of you stood at the doors to the lab, the keypad waiting for a passcode that he did not have. He didn’t seem to worry, though - especially when you stepped forward and put in your own given code. The doors gave way, and you answered his raised eyebrows with a wry smile.

“Coresearcher’s privileges,” you whispered. “Just because I’m a prisoner here doesn’t mean I get out of working.” 

Baptiste paused. A new thought seemed to kindle in his eyes when he looked at you.

“A prisoner, huh?” he murmured. He seemed to hold on to the phrase as he swept through the lab, something troubled tugging at his brow. His hands moved quickly, fingers lighting over the neat rows of vials kept cool in the specialized refrigerators. Glancing in, you could only make sense of a small fraction of the words that lined each label; you knew social psychology, not medicine. But Baptiste seemed almost in his element - as much as one could be when breaking into the lab of the most brilliant, prolific human-rights violator on the planet.

“There you are,” he said finally, and, carefully, he plucked out a pair of identical vials. The liquid within was amber and appeared almost viscous, and glinted as Baptiste slipped the vials into a padded container he pulled from his pocket. “That,” he told you, “is life. It doesn’t look like much, though, does it?”

“Important things never do,” you replied.

* * *

It was three in the morning when the two of you made your hushed way back to the corridor where you met - and you had never felt more awake. It would be only a matter of time before the facility woke up completely, before there would be no darkness to hide Baptiste’s presence. 

He paused in the middle of choosing an exit to escape out of, and turned to look at you. There was that troubled look again, that determination.

“They seem to be keeping you alive for the time being, but I could easily make room for one more, you know,” Baptiste offered. He outstretched a hand toward you, making it clear that he was being serious. “You could leave here, and come with me… you know. If you want to live.” 

You smiled. Part of you wanted to hug him, to thank him for showing you the kind of human regard that you hadn’t been shown by most. Part of you - a sliver, but one you felt guilty about nonetheless - wanted you to take his hand, take his offer, leave this place with its lies and sterility. 

But of course, you would never do that. And you told him so.

“What’s keeping you here, then?” he asked. “It has to be something. I can see in your eyes that you hate being here.” A second, two seconds, and he seemed to understand. “You said they had something of yours.”

“Someone, more like,” you whispered.

“A hostage?”

That one was strangely difficult to answer. Was Siebren the hostage? No, if anything, you were - it was his cooperation they sought. But you were the one who felt trapped by Talon’s conditions.

You suddenly had the thought that if Baptiste could break in and out of the facility with relative ease once, he just might be able to pull off another trip. Maybe, if he knew…

“Do you remember,” you said quietly, “what happened to Doctor Siebren de Kuiper, years ago? He was an astrophysicist.”

“He died, didn’t he?” Baptiste asked, though the calculations were already running through his head. “The whole world covered it, but I was a little too busy to worry about details at the time.”

“Right. That’s what they said. But he isn’t dead, Baptiste. Talon has him, and they’re using him for his  _ condition _ , and I’ve been looking for an out for us both, but I’m one civilian and —”

You swallowed. Slowed your breathing. Panic was not a solution. 

It should have been easy, out of concern for his safety, his mission, to let him go. But you couldn’t just yet.

“Please. I need help. I need you to just… tell someone. I know you know people - you were smart enough to make it here. He’s being weaponized and he needs serious psychological support and they aren’t letting me  _ give _ it. I’m desperate at this point, Baptiste. Please.”

And this man - who had won you over entirely with his cool head and genuine smile, his obvious desire to do good - did not disappoint you. After a moment of thought, he seemed to come to a decision, and he nodded sharply at you.

“Keep an eye out,” Baptiste told you, still gripping your hand. “I won’t forget about you.”

His eyes were earnest, shining with confidence and the steely undertones of a plan in construction. This was a man who meant what he said and kept his promises. Your eyes misted over; but instead of crying like you had so often, you smiled.

“You know what?” you said softly. “I believe you, Baptiste.”

His lifesaver’s smile returned full force, and he squeezed your fingers before letting you go. To the ceiling - to whatever microphones or cameras installed there - he threw up a peace sign.

“I owe you one, sister,” he said, doubtless to Sombra. “Take care for me, will you?”

Then he was gone, out a high-set window in a single massive leap. And, heading to the break room to prepare yourself a cup of tea, allowed yourself to feel a flare of hope among the fear settled in your chest, and the anticipation of the things to come.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things escalate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2020! we're here and i finally have a new chapter! we're just moving things a little bit further, here, toward the real end game :0 but what is the real end game? who can say!
> 
> anyway sigma is still a cool dude and i still wanna be his friend :)

Professor Siebren de Kuiper knows trouble when he sees it. (And since the accident, he can _ feel _it, approaching like a bullet, like a cold front, like -

\- _ the massive fluctuations of an experiment gone wrong but his math was right he'd done it right how could it have gone _\- ** _no. _ **

No, no.)

“What do you have for me today, Doctor O’Deorain?” he asks pleasantly, hands lightly clasped behind his back, listening and watching with all of his attention the way he does with everything. One must always be alert, after all.

The good doctor has no problems entering and leaving his personal chambers (_ prison _ ), a quality that is only shared by his psychologist ( _ his shield, his treasure, his tether to reality _). No one else dares to risk getting caught in the gravitic fluctuations he brings everywhere he goes, and he can hardly blame them.

“I could ask you the same, Doctor de Kuiper.” Her long nails - fascinating, almost grotesque in their novelty! - glint off the harsh lights that Siebren has long since become accustomed to. “Show me one of your hyperspheres, if you would. I’d like to see your progress.”

_ Progress _, in Siebren’s case, is measured by how much damage, how much range, his hyperspheres can reach on impact. Sometimes the target in question is as simple as the far wall; sometimes it takes the form of simple circular targets, for accuracy.

Most troubling of all were the human targets, the paper cutouts and then the crash dummies and then the _ people _ , the low-level Talon operatives who had been deemed unimportant and fit to be used as target practice, the ones who, behind the helmets and the armor had been so obviously _ afraid _and

_ (“Whenever you’d like to begin, Doctor,” Doctor O’Deorain’s droll voice said, crackly over the speakers. It sounded as if she were watching a boring golf match, and not ordering him to harm innocents for the sake of measurement. _

As innocent as these people can be, _ said the quiet little voice in the back of his head that he smothered. No. Talon was good. Talon had freed him. There was no other way to think, there was no _

_ Siebren stilled, eyes fixed on the three faceless agents. It would be a simple thing, mechanically, to harness the atmosphere around him, to apply pressure until gravity itself rested in his grasp, ready to maim. _

_ A simple thing, but at the cost of human suffering. It was unacceptable, it was - _

_ “Surely the metal targets provided sufficient -” he began, trying to keep his voice level even as the trepidation weighed on him. His opinion did matter, he had been assured, and yet it was all too easy for his suggestions to be ignored - the enduring struggle of having been _shattered -

_ “Would you rather an afternoon of solitary confinement, _ Sigma?” _ O’Deorain asked sharply, jerking Siebren’s attention back to the present. _

_ He froze. _

_ Solitary confinement was - _

_ the emptiness and the quiet and the unrelenting fluorescent lights that all made it so much easier for the whispers to seep back into his head the melody with its maddening unpredictable repetition its _

_ no _

** _no _ **

_ Siebren went cold. _

_ “Of course, Doctor. My apologies.” _

_ There were three operatives in the room with him. _

_ Sigma killed them all.) _

\--

Siebren de Kuiper knows trouble when he feels it in the air, and suddenly there it is. It is cold and it is immediate, and he gasps.

“Doctor?” O’Deorain asks. Her voice is level, but he can hear the edge that lies just under her words. Her attention is sharp and it is critical and it demands an explanation.

Instead, for now, Siebren voices the first concern in his head.

“Where is -” _ the psychologist the tether the shield his person _ “- the librarian?”

Impatience tugs at Doctor O’Deorain’s brows, the corners of her mouth.

“The _ librarian _is still here, if that’s what has you so worried. I have her doing inventory in one of the auxiliary labs. Perhaps if your performance today is especially noteworthy, I can arrange for an early visit for the two of you. Now, then… what was that.”

_ That _is the flicker of the lights overhead, the sudden and light rumbling that shakes the building almost imperceptibly. Siebren tenses; Moira turns sharply around and addresses the Talon guard stationed at the door.

“You. Tell me what’s happening.”

The agent straightens up, one hand going to their comm, the other to their gun. “Um - a moment, Doctor. Requesting sitrep.”

A couple seconds pass; there is the unmistakable energy pulse of an explosion, somewhere in the facility. _ An attack. Oh, no. Oh, no, no. _

“We’re under attack,” the agent says. “Estimated count of… five? No, six hostiles, including one count of a MEKA unit? It’s. It’s pink.”

“Overwatch,” Moira says quietly, severe. “Give me your commlink. Then bring me my equipment.”

“I - yes, ma’am. Here!” The fumbling of the guard, his rapidly departing footsteps, and Moira’s sudden rigidity, as if assessing the situation, barely register with Sigma.

_ Overwatch. _Whatever they had been originally, whatever the intentions had been, they were no longer good. They were renegades now, reckless, extremist and dangerous. Sigma had been carefully debriefed about the splinter group that had risen from the organization’s ashes. Though few, they were not to be underestimated.

These six Overwatch operatives posed a threat to Talon - and to you. He would not allow it.

Sigma all but forgets his quiet panic from moments before; now, he sees the problem before them as an equation, as a simple set of actions and reactions that, if managed carefully, tactically (_ violently _), will result in the safety of his own.

“Where are they, Doctor? We would do well to prepare for an interception.”

Moira, who has adjusted the commlink to the high-ranking operatives’ channel, eyes him carefully before deciding that he is fit for action.

“Agreed.” She hands him the comm in her hands and pulls her own from her lab coat pocket. A humorless chuckle escapes her. “We hardly have enough time to get properly suited up, do we? It’s no matter. Follow me.”

There is a steady beat of gunfire that grows louder the farther they go down the hall. There is shouting, there are screams, there is the loud crack of what _ must _ be the infamous helix rockets belonging to the Soldier. It would be no difficult task for him to smother them within a gravitic vortex. As for the MEKA… as for the _ rest _of their numbers… hm.

The Talon agent from earlier comes running down the hallway to meet them, clutching the essentials of Moira’s kit. She slips them on as if sliding into another frame of mind, this one adorned with a sudden sharp smile. Moira, Sigma has learned, holds a distaste for field work - but she is a force to be feared.

“Brilliant,” Moira says. And then: “They’ve entered through the hangar bay. Quickly - and _ put on _the commlink.”

\--

This is violence.

The hangar bay is on fire and there are bodies strewn all about the floor. The _ crack-crack-crack _of Reaper’s shotguns pound a tempest in Sigma’s head that he has to blink away. Somewhere off to the side, a Talon operative, faceless in their uniform, is quietly sobbing, clutching at a gushing wound; Moira curtly applies a coat of biotic fluid and is gone without so much as a word. 

_ The suffering - _no, no. Not the time.

“Barrier’s up!” Sigma announces as he _ wills _the field into existence. Sometimes he takes comfort in knowing that he is protecting people, that some will live because of him. Now, it doesn’t matter at all. He hurls hyperspheres at the opposing shield that lifts itself in response to Talon’s fire.

The one holding the shield is a man, large and positively imposing in his armor. Sigma is delighted.

“A Crusader!” he exclaims. “You wouldn’t, by chance, be the operative called Reinhardt, would you?”

“I would indeed!” the Crusader bellows back. Sigma can hear the grim grin in his voice. “The setting is unfortunate, but it is nice to meet a fan!”

Crusaders lean heavily on their shields, both to support their team and to push forward. Simple, then, that he should devote his efforts to shattering it. Sigma’s hands _ pull _ at the air, pulling battle debris together into a crude projectile. Sigma’s hands _ push _ and the makeshift meteor explodes against the barrier. Hairline cracks bloom all over the blue surface.

“Barrier failing!” the Crusader shouts. He pivots on his heel as it collapses, throwing the bulk of his frame in front of the two other Overwatch operatives. The Soldier plants a biotic emitter (fascinating technology, one that required further study?) down at once, responding to the loss of the shield, and almost as an afterthought, ducks to avoid the streak of blue light that passes over him and Wilhelm. It coalesces into the shape of another subject Sigma has been debriefed on: Tracer. 

“Much obliged, loves!” she tosses at the men, and from there it’s all anyone can do to track her fairy trail towards Reaper, guns blazing.

It’s all so much, both overwhelming and overwhelmingly _ fascinating _\- Sigma has never had the pleasure of facing off against these characters before - that he barely has time to react when his shield meets the same fate as the Crusader’s.

“My barrier is fracturing!” Sigma mirrors, his eyes widening at the blur of pink that shatters his shield.

“Ha! _ Tryhards!” _

MEKA pilot Hana “D.Va” Song immediately turns her attention to Sigma, and he meets her eyes for a split second. She is young - she can’t be more than twenty, and even as he attacks, this fact sticks uncomfortably with him. The hyperspheres are in his hands and shooting toward her, and immediately are crumbled in her unit’s defensive field.

“Maybe _ next _ time, okay?” Song chirps, setting her jaw. “We’re not here to fight _ you.” _

_ Crack. _The cockpit blooms with splintering fractures, a single bullet lodged at the epicenter,and Song flinches back with a scowl.

“_ Ugh. _Snipers,” is all she mutters, dismissing Sigma entirely. The heat from her unit’s rockets lash against his skin and she is beelining for the rafters and the lone assassin taking aim from on high. “Bap, you’d better pick up the pace! We’re taking some hits here!”

\--

“_ D’accord _, D.Va. Our friend and I are on our way.”

In the hallways winding farther and farther from the auxiliary labs, you watch as Baptiste cracks the butt of his gun into a guard’s head, the latest in a line of guards that he’s laid out on the floor on his way to reach you. His sunshine smile and friendly greeting - “Long time no see. Feel like a field trip?” - had immediately assuaged your fears on hearing the impact of explosions, the subsequent klaxons.

You’d laughed, loudly, carefree, and all but tossed aside the clipboard in your hands. 

“You’re back! You came back!”

“I’m not much of a liar, you know. Now come on; I managed to get a couple friends together for this party but it’s not enough to last the night."

When he held out his hand, this time, you took it and held firm. And now the two of you were half-running down the corridor, dodging past occupied hallways and ones filled with smoke.

“How much did you hit?” you asked on passing one that was particularly smoke-filled, burning. 

“Enough to distract them,” Baptiste replied grimly, tugging you away from the sight - but not before you caught the unmoving figures slumped in the flames. _ Oh. _

“In the spirit of full disclosure,” Baptiste explains after a minute of almost-quiet, “we’re going to have to cut through the hangar bay. Which is where the fighting is actually happening, mind you. You can handle the sight, _ oui?” _

“I - yes. Yes, don’t worry about me.”

“Great!” Then, into his comm: “Amari, are you set up?”

Sidling just a bit closer to Baptiste, you’re able to pick up the answer, faint. 

“I have eyes on the target.”

“_Merci. _”

Baptiste smiles. It is reassuring.

“Let’s go take a little stroll, you and me. We’ll be out of this before you know it. You trust me, right?”

“Right. I do trust you..” You’re afraid, and worried for Siebren, but you swallow your anxiety and tighten your grip on Baptiste’s hand.

“Good,” says Baptiste. “Let’s go.”

And then you’re running like you haven’t in years, across the bullet-streaked battlegrounds, toward the Crusader in the battered silver armor (a Crusader? Here?) and the open air beyond.

And even when you bolt past Siebren, raining hyperspheres like hailstones, Baptiste doesn’t let you stop.

\--

This is violence:

Siebren almost doubles over with the sharp realization that _ you _are suddenly in the middle of the fray. Immediately, he is flooded with worst case scenarios, with what-ifs, and immediately, his focus is broken.

no no NO

_You can’t be here. _

But you are. You are here and God, _ please _ -

You’re running. You are sprinting like he hasn’t seen in forever and you turn to meet his eyes when he hoarsely shouts your name. But you don’t stop (why _ not?! _ ) and he sees just why: you are being dragged by the arm, by the very Talon defector he had been warned about in a previous briefing. The deadly medic Augustin is **kidnapping ** you he is _ taking you away he is _

Siebren has never reached his breaking point so quickly, but here he is. Terror and panic overtake him and he knows that he will do **anything **to keep you safe and with him (you, who so patiently stay with him and listen to him ramble on about his interests, holding his hands and humming old songs to quell his shaking).

Siebren _ howls _and the world around him is caught up in the flux.

_ “Re_**_lease _ ** _ her!” _

\--

There is white noise. There is a deafening wall of silence that drowns Overwatch and Talon agent alike. There is a split second where Ana Amari, hidden in shadow and caught in the air, dictates the end of the story. 

The angles line up. There is a sliver of skin exposed, just enough for a sleep dart to dig itself into de Kuiper’s neck. Reaching her small tranquilizer gun against the immeasurable weight of gravity is one of the hardest things she has ever had to pull off. 

But Ana is _ good _, and she knows this about herself. 

The angles line up. She makes the shot.


End file.
